Where  It  Listeth 


MARY  NORSWORTHY  SHEPARD 


0 


"WHERE  IT   LISTETH" 


BY 
MARY  NOHSWORTHY  SHEPAED 


COPYRIGHT,    1912 

SHERMAN,  FRENCH  &•  COMPANY 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE   TORCH 1 

WILLOW-SILVER 2 

YOUTH  OF  THE  YEAR 3 

SONG    OF    PERSEPHONE 4 

SONG    OF    DIS 5 

GARGOYLE       6 

A   BOY   TO   A   TREE 7 

MUTED 8 

THE    SHUTTLE 9 

BORDERLAND 10 

THE     POOL 11 

"ONE   STAR  DIFFERETH   FROM   ANOTHER 

STAR" 12 

AT  OXFORD 13 

GRIEF 14 

CREATION 15 

BIRTHRIGHT 16 

"SO  MUCH  A  PART  OF  ME  YOU  HAVE  BE- 
COME"    17 

TO  JOHN   KEATS 18 

FROM   A  CAGE 19 

THE     LESSON 20 

THE    HOUR    GLASS 21 

HOPE 22 

NOT   OF   THIS   WORLD 23 

A  SOURCE 24 

HERB  O'GRACE .     .  26 

SUI    VICTOR 27 

IN   BAGLEY  WOOD 28 

BURNING-BUSH 29 

THE   ASTRONOMER  30 


2138320 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  READER  TO  THE  POET 31 

SIESTA          32 

THE  ARC  DE  TRIOMPHE  AT  SUNRISE   .     .  34 

THE  BOW 35 

WIND    FROM    THE    EAST 36 

BEAUVAIS   CATHEDRAL 37 

EXPERIENCE .  38 

NAMESAKE 39 

TO   A   YOUNG   POET 40 

HAUS-GEIST 41 

DESERT 42 

LOVE'S   SONG 43 

SIMILITUDE 44 

RECOGNITION 45 

ARBOR  VITAE 46 

WINDS 47 

ROSA    BEATA 48 

PARADOX         49 

HOLIDAY 50 

TEMPTATION .  51 

A  GATE  OF  DREAM 52 

THE  SURPRISE 53 

ON    THE    GORNEGRAT 54 

FOLK    SONG    . 56 

ROSA    DOLOROSA 57 

VIGIL 58 

GOSSIPS 59 

TO-DAY 60 

THE    GLASS 61 

REVELATION 62 

TO  ROBERT  AND  ELIZABETH  BROWNING  .  63 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

MIRACLE 64 

TIDES 65 

EAST  TO  WEST 66 

THE    PAWN 67 

THE  SHUT  DOOR 68 

URBIUM   FLORES .  69 

TRANSMIGRATION 72 

KINSHIP 73 

POET-BIRTH 74 

PERSONALITY .  75 

PILGRIMAGE  .  77 


THE  TORCH 

THIS  torch  was  handed  me  by  one  who  went 
Faring  to  surer  shores,  o'er  wider  main. 
His  look  was  like  a  god's,  but  overspent, 
As  if  he  too  on  Caucasus  had  lain. 
Kin  to  Prometheus,  he  his  kinship  wore 
Between  his  eyes,  a  signal  to  his  kind ; 
And  that  dim  cryptogram,  writ  evermore 
By  soul  on  flesh,  on  body  by  the  mind. 
Through  ways  by  earthy  gusts  too  much  o'er- 

blown, 

The  hollow  of  his  hand  had  pent  this  fire ; 
Fanned  by  his  breath,  its  light  had  been  out 

thrown 
Up  those  steep  darks  where  those  who  climb 

aspire. 

Leave  me  thy  password,  O  thou  vanished  one ! 
"Man  can  hereafter  do  what  man  has  done." 


[1] 


WILLOW-SILVER 

SILENT,  aloof,  as  some  mist-circled  tree, 
Within  the  shadow  of  my  mood  I   stand, 
And  its  cold  breath  is  like  a  pressing  band, 
That  cramps  my  heart  and  all  its  energy. 
And  then,  you  come !  the  sun  upon  your  hair ! 
Free  as  the  passing  of  the  shriving  wind, 
That  straight  its  way  through  every  mist  will 

find, 

To  scatter  it,  in  bluer,  clearer  air : 
And,  as  the  Willow  thrills  the  gale  to  meet, 
Turning  her  silver  to  its  gay  caress, 
So  would  my  silent  soul  itself  confess. 
I  am  the  tree,  and  you  the  wind,  my  sweet! 
To  you,  disparter  of  the  dreary  haze, 
Turns  all  the  silver  meaning  of  my  days. 


[*] 


YOUTH  OF  THE  YEAR 

FRIENDS,  I  did  know  the  maid  had  passed  this 

way, 

For  through  the  orchard's  branching  tracery 
The  wind  had  blown  her  rosy  frock  about, 
To  float  and  catch  on  every  naked  tree. 

And  where  the  brook,  beneath  the  Alder  shade, 
Cleaves  through  the  mead  its  Hyla-haunted  rim. 
Her  purple  veil  had  floated  to  the  ground, 
And  the  bright  sod  with  Violets  was  dim. 

But  when  I  knelt  beside  the  rounded  pool, 
The  radiant  double  of  the  sky  to  see, 
Over  my  shoulder,  in  that  limped  glass, 
She  bent,  and  looked  at  me! 


SONG  OF  PERSEPHONE 

WHEN  first  I  sat  within  this  purple  shade 
My  arms  yearned  back  to  Mother  Ceres'  breast ; 
My  eyes  were  wet,  like  eyes   of  any  maid 
Caught  from  the  caging  of  the  homing  nest. 
I  visioned  olive  boughs,  and  then  the  cool 
Of  Enna's  green,  edged  with  a  silver  hem 
Of    frail    Anemones ;    and    that    one    glistening 

pool 

Wherein  the  bather  swayed,  like  lily  stem. 
That  was  long  since :  and  now  my  eyes  are  dark 
For  want   of  tears;   and   from   the  knowledge 

stored 

In  womb  of  earth ;  and  from  that  circlet's  mark 
Set  on  my  brow  by  Dis,  my  love  and  lord. 
Since  when,  not  even  for  the  gift  of  tears 
Would     I    forego    these    weighted,    conscious 

years. 


[4] 


SONG  OF  DIS 

To  the  cold  fire  of  a  nether  world 

Thou  broughtest  warmth,  and  light  to  my 
black  mood; 

And  every   pretty   grace   that   runs   impearled 

On  the  gold  thread  of  a  sweet  maidenhood, 

Has  set  a  taper  in  my  lonely  dark : 

But  more  than  this,  dull  ears  have  been  un- 
sealed 

At  touch  of  love;  and  I  begin  to  hark 

To  plaints  and  cries  from  ravished  Enna's 
field, 

To  Ceres'  moan,  and  bleat  from  lambs  forlorn ; 

I  see  a  stubbled  mead  where  should  arise 

That  many  pillared  house  of  gold,  the  corn ; 

And  black  the  wreath  that  on  the  altar  lies. 

Is  this  the  chrism  by  the  gods  decreed, 
To  part  thee  from  me  for  another's  need? 


[5] 


GARGOYLE 

HIGH,  where  stars  walk  through  the  night, 
And  the  sun,  its  daily  flower 
Drops,  upon  the  wrinkled  tower; 

Weird,  against  that  mid-day  light, 
— Weirder,  'gainst  the  purple  arch 
Under  which  those  star  hosts  march — 

Breaks  the  gargoyle's  stony  leer, 
As  he   cranes   from  parapet 
Where  his  sprawling  arms  are  set. 

Ugliness,  without  a  peer! 
Thou  wert  carven,  line  by  line, 
Without  word  or  wish  of  thine; 

But  thy  maker  set  thee  here, 
That  from  thy  misshapen  lip, 
Clearest   rain   from  heaven  might   drip. 


[6] 


A  BOY  TO  A  TREE 

O  LITTLE  Pine, 

Nursling  now  of  the  forest's  flock; 

What  shall  your  fate  be, 

When,  grown  to  symmetry, 

Prone  with  the  Fir  and  Oak, 

With  severing  shock 

You've  felt  the  axe's  stroke, 

O  little  Tree! 

Shall  it  be  yours,  to  fling  your  stalwart  length, 

And  give  your  strength, 

To  bridge  for  timid  feet 

Some  yawning  gap, 

Some  precipice  profound, 

And  make  complete 

A  way  to  solid  ground? 

Is  this  your  fate?  or  shall  you  roof  in  love, 

With  your  low  beam,  some  family  hearth  above? 

Or  else,  mayhap, 

Wed  to  a  shining  sail, 

As  valiant  mast,  you'll  voyage  sun  and  gale! 

O  little  Tree, 

Is  it  for  you,  or  is  it  all  for  me, 
That  these  thoughts  come  and  pass, 
Like  light  upon  the  grass? 


m 


MUTED 

THROUGH   the  deep   grasses   winds   a  scroll   of 

gold, 

Fed  by  the  turnings  of  a  hidden  spring 
That  has  no  other  voice  in  which  to  sing 
Than  Mary-buds  and  Iris  leaves  unfold. 
In  their  bright  script  is  writ  its  silent  song. 
Gay  as  a  Missal  is  the  sober  mead, 
And  ye  who  loiter  there  the  song  may  read 
Of  a  hid  life,  that  silent  winds  along. 
So,  when  I'm  mute  my  faithful  love  to  speak, 
And  there  are  stirrings  at  its  source  profound, 
Too  vast,  too  deep  for  any  voiced  sound, 
Then,  Sweet,  must  you  my  silent  music  seek ; 
Search,  if  its  hidden  life  no  flower  feeds, 
No   Marigold  or   Iris   'mongst  the  weeds. 


[8] 


THE    SHUTTLE 

WHERE  the  hooded  East  has  spun  her  thread 
From  her  distaff's  cloudy  gray, 
Through  her  shadow  fingers  it  has   sped 
Upon  its  webbed  way. 

Across  the  vasty  loom  of  the  sky 
It  passes  again — again — 
Insistent  ever,  the  long  threads  ply, 
Weaving  a  warp  of  rain: 

And  the  long-drawn,  silken  spinnings  stretch, 

Slanting  and  tenuous-fine, 

On  the  dark  lift  of  the  sky  to  etch 

A  shining  line  on  line. 

Over  and  under  that  warp  of  rain 
My  fancy's  shuttle  I've  thrown; 
But  the  woven  visions — misty,  vain, 
At  break  of  sun  are  flown ! 


BORDERLAND 

WE  have  not  met  where  rivers  rise, 
In  cradles  up  above  the  skies ; 
And  flowers  spill  a  fragrant  rill 
To  quench  the  thirst  of  tired  eyes. 

Nor  where  those  rivers  wider  flow, 
And  trees  their  latticed  shadows  throw, 
With  clasping  arms   and  healing  balms, 
Like  that  glad  stream  the  angels  know. 

Yet,  surely,  there's  another  tide 
That  we  have  known  and  walked  beside; 
A  pleasant  stream,  of  talk  and  dream, 
That  shoots  its  waters  far  and  wide. 

We've  often   cast  our  pebbles  there, 
And  wondered  how,  and  when,  and  where, 
Those    widening    rounds    should    reach    their 

bounds, 
And  dared,  as  loving  spirits  dare. 

But,  best,  above  that  river's  flow, 
Gazing,  where  rocky  altars  glow 
With  visions,  framed  in  sunset  flame, 
We've  known  what  loving  spirits  know. 

Written  in  a  copy  of  Henry  van  Dyke's  "  Little  Riv- 
ers." 

[10] 


THE  POOL 

IN  the  far  west,  where  her  dusk  garden  glows, 
With  the  young  winds  about  her  feet  at  play, 
Paces  the  Evening;  purple,  gold  and  rose 
Bloom  down  her  path  at  dying  of  the  day. 

Softly  she  steps,  and  breathes  a  little  song; 
He  who  has  ears  may  hear  her  lullabies ; 
Her  shining  hair  floats  the  wide  sky  along, 
And  firstlings  of  the  stars  are  her  clear  eyes. 

The  sodden  fields  are  bright  for  many  a  mile 
With  the  warm  radiance  from  that  streaming 

hair; 

E'en  that  forsaken  pool  has  caught  her  smile, 
And,  from  its  dark  and  miserable  lair, 

Rounds  to  a  splendid,  burnished  bowl  of  gold, 
The  fallen  roses  from  her  hand  to  hold. 


[11] 


"ONE   STAR  DIFFERETH  FROM 
ANOTHER  STAR" 

CORRALLED  by  window-pane, 
— A  blue  and  dusky  square, — 
Fenced  by  window-bar — 
A  garden  plot  of  air, — 

Your  measured  altitude 
Beareth  a  flower  each  night ; 
Watered  by  lunar  mists, 
Silvered  by  unseen  light. 

Punctual  to  my  gaze, 
It  flares  its  petals  pale, 
That,  centifolious, 
A  lambent  light  exhale. 

For  me,  it  shines,  a  flower, 
For  you,  a  fitful  spark; 
To  you,  at  most,  a  world ;  to  me, 
The  one  break  in  my  dark. 


AT  OXFORD* 

THE    sun   has    slipped   from    off   the    Bodleian 

dome, 

And  Mary's  spire  blurs  in  the  soft  grey ; 
While  all  along  the  circling,  dusky  gloam 
Oxford  unrolls  her  tapestried  array 
Of  roof  and  tower  and  crenellated  walls, 
Transmuted   to  a  dim  and  dreamlike  hue: 
Even  young  gardens,  clasping  ancient  halls, 
Lose  sprightly  tints  at  falling  of  the  dew. 
Near  the  "faire  gate"  of  Tom,  I  count  the  toll, 
The  hundred  and  the  one;  and  fancies  dwell, 
Not  on  the  hundred  scholars  in  the  roll, 
But  on  that  one,  remembered  of  the  bell 
Through  all  the  centuries ;  his  face,  unknown, 
Yet,  conjured,  by  that  measured,  haunting  tone. 

*The  bell  of  Christ  Church  College,  Oxford,  at  nine 
o'clock,  each  evening,  sounds  one  hundred  and  one 
strokes,  in  memory  of  the  hundred  and  one  scholars  of 
the  original  foundation. 


[13] 


GRIEF 

TKAIL  of  the  withered  leaf, 
Blaze  of  the  broken  bough ; 
Where  I  stand,  a  centred  soul, 
In  my  little  space  of  Now. 

The  wood  path  stretches  long, 
The  roads  bend  round  the  world; 
And  earth  itself  is  travelling  far, 
On  its  starlit  pathway  hurled. 

Infinitesimal  I, 
Is  hub  of  nebulous  spheres; 
But  for  vasty  sights  and  sounds 
Has  neither  eyes  nor  ears. 

For  the  wood  path,  where  I  stand, 
Is  wounded   unto   death, 
And  one  small  crimson  leaf 
Holds  all  my  sight  and  breath. 

Its  slender  point  of  flame 

Is  all  that  I  can  see; 

And  my   soul   itself  goes   fluttering  down 

With  that  red  leaf  from  the  tree. 


[14] 


CREATION 

IN  visions  of  the  night,  I  saw  Love,  brooding, 
bent, 

To  launch,  like  paper  boats,  stars  in  the  firma- 
ment. 

And  the  rainbow  bubble  of  Time  I   saw   Him 

make, 
To  poise,  and  float  'round  the  stars,  'till  He 

bade  it  break. 

And  Time  and  the  stars  seemed  purposeless 
toys, — and  then, 

I  saw  the  look  in  Love's  face,  when  He  fash- 
ioned men. 


[15] 


BIRTHRIGHT 

WHEN  my  soul  with  another  soul  keeps  tryst, 
Ofttimes  it  finds  that  tryst  is  in  the  dark; 
Between  us,  that  impenetrable  mist 
That  must  the  boundaries  of  our  being  mark. 
I  stand  perplexed,  and  feel  as  Psyche  did, 
Who  heard  Love's  speech,  and  felt  the  stir  of 

wings ; 

But  speech,  too  often,  like  a  chrysalid 
Cabins  and  hides  the  life  of  precious  things. 
Yet,  when  in  Psyche's  lamp  I'd  stir  the  flame, 
To  gaze  into  that  other  soul's  recess, 
To  wrest  its  meaning  and  its  mystic  name, 
The  lamp  slips  low,  my  hand  drops  powerless; 
Into  that  innermost  I  dare  not  see, 
Such   lonely   birthright   has   humanity. 


[16] 


"SO  MUCH  A  PART  OF  ME  YOU  HAVE 
BECOME" 

So  much  a  part  of  me  you  have  become, 
That,  when  to  praise  you  doth  another  speak, 
The  shy  blood  steals  up  to  my  brow  and  cheek, 
And  with  your  own  sweet  shame,  my  lips   are 
dumb. 


[17] 


TO  JOHN  KEATS 

LIKE  any  falcon  of  old  pageantries, 

That  wrist-enthroned,  its  master's  mood  obeys, 

I,  too,  wear  jesses;  for  your  linked  phrase 

Chains  me  with  bells  of  glorious  harmonies. 

So,  listening,  this  falcon-gentle  stays 

Your   vibrant   voice;    and   when    the   cord   you 

seize, 

To  toss  me  higher  than  the  highest  breeze, 
On  the  bright  track  of  your  ecstatic  lays, 
I  follow,  follow,  with  my  beating  heart 
Sounding  sweet  echoes;  and  the  sky  ways,  too, 
Throb  with  the  rapture.     Then  the  clouds  dis- 
part 

To  make  new  paths  to  heaven ;  and  the  blue, 
Like  a  great  flower,  drops  its  leaves  apart, 
Riven   by   splendour,   where   your   song   beats 
through. 


[18] 


FROM  A  CAGE 

OUTSIDE,  where  Zephyr  blows, 
The  songs  are  all  a  tilting, 
Coquetting  and  a  lilting; 
And  notes  about  are  blown 
Like  petals,  downward  strewn 
From  a  hundred-leafed  rose. 

But   my   little  heart  is   caged, 
And  it  mopes  there  all  enraged; 
Its    little    wings    hang   straight, 
To  match  its  sorry  fate ; 
And  its  pipe  is  dry  and  still 
As  a  parched,  pebbly  rill, 
When  the  sun  has  drunk  its  fill. 

Ah,  you,  who  locks  can  pick, 
Who  know  alone  the  trick 
That  slips  my  latchet, — quick, 
Come  ope  this  hateful  door, 
To  let  me  blueward  soar; 
And  such  a  song  I'll  pour, 
The  stars  shall  hear  your  fame! 
The  sun  shall  learn  your  name ! 


[19] 


THE  LESSON 

WHEX  he  of  bow  and  arrows  came 
To  her  I  love,  she  won  his  heart : 
He  taught  her  how  to  play  his  game, — 
The    tightened    string — the   singing   dart. 
Of  all  that  ruthless,  tender  art 
He  made  her  adept.     Loath  to  part, 
He  lingered  slow — then  gave  his  bow 
And   quiver   into   her   sweet   hold, 
Bidding  her  use  them  as  she  willed. 
And  she,  with  all  her  art  grown  bold, 
The  arrows  straight  before  her  spilled; 
And  kept  but  one, — that  one   for  me — 
A  sharp  one — to  my  misery ! 


[20] 


THE  HOUR  GLASS 

WATCHING  it  filter  its  momentous  sand, 

I  turn  the  carven  toy,  now  down,  now  up; 

Alas !  did  I  but  know  to  turn  its  cup 

To  where  young  Joy  once  caught  me  by  the 

hand, 

And  gave  his  eyes  as  mirror  to  my  own, 
That  I  should  gaze  therein.     The  radiant  smile 
That  curved  his  lips,  was  mine,  the  blessed  while 
He  held  my  hand.     Like  his,  my  hair  was  blown 
In  a  bright  wind;  and  from  its  loosened  knot 
Fell  flowers  of  Arcadie.     Ah,  restore! 
Ye  sands,  that  pile  as  if  the  past  were  not, 
Ye  sands,  that  mock  with  Never  and  No  More ! 
I  yet  shall  see  you,  outspilled  and  forgot, 
On  a  far-scanned,  illimitable  shore! 


HOPE 

SEA  is  dark, 

Sky  is  dark; 

Light  is  focused 

To  a  spark ; 

Where,  fire-white 

In  its  flight, 

Burns  the  white  breast  of  the  Lark. 

Lonely  one, 

Shooting  far, 

Against  dark  sky 

Like  spray-wet  star! 

From  unrest 

Of  my  own  breast, 

Has  your  wing  just  broken  bar? 

Are  you  that  thing, 

That,  in  despite 

Rack  of  cloud, — 

Passed  from  sight 

Through  its  chill, — 

Insistent  still, 

Bears  imperishable  light ! 


[22] 


NOT  OF  THIS  WORLD 

HE  cannot  hawk  his  wares  about  the  mart, 
They  are  too  much  the  colour  of  his   soul; 
Dangle,  for  custom's  bid,  his  shrinking  heart, 
Measure  its  beatings  by  expected  dole. 
This  little  rhyme,  that's  wet  with  dews  of  dawn, 
Young  as  a  bird's  pipe,  or  a  flageolet, 
Is  a  child's  faith,  the  voicing  of  his  morn, 
— We've  faced  the  lions  with  its  amulet ! — 
This,  is  a  clouded  song,  sung  in  the  night, 
With  stars  outblown,  and  fog  upon  his  face ; 
Yet,  he  still  thrilled  to  feel  the  unseen  light 
That,  though  unseen,  illumines  every  place ; 
The  light  by  which  his  single  soul  is  led, 
Unwitting  of  the  laurel  round  his  head. 


[23] 


A   SOURCE 

I  ROUND  a  rocky  cup  in  a  fold  of  hill, 
Assured,  as  long  as  I  thirst,  and  learn  to  be 

still, 
From  the  dark  and  cool  below  my  cup  will  fill. 

And  as  the  ripples  brim,  I  tremblingly  know 
From  touch  of  my  rocky  hem,  a  virtue  will  go 
In  streams,  that  water  the  world,  in  quenchless 

flow. 

< 

What  though  the  brim  be  close  that  so  chafes 

my  soul, 

And  a  slender,  unseen  spring  be  my  daily  dole, 
If   afar   some   parched   mouth   drink    from   my 

bowl? 

Where  streams  repeat  the  world,  like  a  pictured 
page, 

I  yearn  to  mirror  the  souls  whose  thirst  I  as- 
suage ; 

Isolation  bars  me  apart,  like  bird  in  cage. 

Concentred,  I  lay  bare  my  heart  to  the  skies, 
To  pulse  with  an  opal  throb  in  the  fair  sunrise, 
And  deepen,  where  midday's  blue  intensifies. 


[24] 


From   clouds,   awing  with   flame,  in  feathered 

flight, 
From  the  stars  that  look  me  through  all  the 

long,  soft  night, 
From  silver  dews  of  the  moon,  I  drink  in  light. 

For  sake  of  thirsty  souls  I  may  ne'er  descry, 
From  the  rock,  where  separate,  I  so  thwarted 

lie, 
The  wave  I  pour  for  their  need,  I  sanctify. 


[25] 


HERB  O'  GRACE 

WHEN  that  slim  treader  of  the  air,  the  wind, 
Bends    her    long    dances    through   the    arched 

green, 

In  the  thin  air  no  footprint  can  I  find, 
And  no  man  has  that  sealed  vision  seen. 
Is  there  no  herb  o'  grace  to  touch  my  eyes, 
That  I  may  see  as  tree  or  flower  sees ; 
Behold  the  incense  from  the  grasses  rise, 
Vision  the  swaying  motion  of  the  breeze? 
— There,    where   the   laurel    and   the    sunshine 

meet, 

Is  it  but  laurel,  vibrant  in  the  light? 
Or  do  a  lover  and  a  maiden  greet, 
She,  still  atremble  from  her  sudden  flight? 
There,  where  the  quiver  of  his  rays  is  poured, 
Is  it  shy  Daphne,  yielding  to  her  lord? 


[26] 


SUI  VICTOR 

UP  from  the  battle,  sword  at  side, 
The  people  surged  to  see  you  ride: 
Your  sky  was  flags,  your  carpet,  bays ! 
Apotheosis   of  your  days ! 

I  saw  you,  outcast,  and  alone, 
Biting  the  dust,  your  honour  prone; 
Holding  your  heart's  joy  in  your  hand, 
Laying  it  down  at  your  own  command: 
No  medal  struck,  no  flag  on  wall, 
Imperator! — your  soul,  your  thrall! 
That  day,  your  bravest  day  of  all. 


[27] 


IN  BAGLEY  WOOD 

HAVE  you,  by  chance,  e'er  walked  in  Bagley 

Wood, 
— Pacing    with    Twilight     and    with     shadow 

things — 

And   felt,  upon  the  homespun   of  your  mood, 
A  golden  network   of  imaginings 
Flung  from  the  tender  throat  of  one  small  bird 
That  dwells  and  sings  in  that  green  anchorage? 
Ah,  then,  in  sudden  rapture,  you  have  heard 
In  that  bright,  sobbing  song,  a  subtle  gauge 
For    speechless    griefs    that    with    the    night 

assail, 

For  speechless  joys  that  rise  with  every  morn; 
And  known,  too,  why  it's  said,  the  Nightingale 
Flutes  her  delight,  her  breast  against  a  thorn. 
Blest  bird,  though  with  the  thorn  my  heart  is 

wrung, 
I  yet  am  dumb,  my  song  goes  still  unsung. 


[28] 


BURNING-BUSH 

SOMETIMES  a  spirit  steals  through  still  of  dew, 
And  on  my  spirit  lays  a  thrilling  hand ; 
When,  to  the  parable  of  sky  and  land 
My  clouded  sense  is  sensitized  anew. 

Such  accolade  divine  came  in  this  guise: 
A  Lilac,  by  the  garden  pale,  became 
Sudden,    at    dawn,    ablaze   with   purple   flame ; 
Its   cloudy   fragrance  swinging,  censer-wise. 

To    foot    of    Horeb,    where    God's    voice    was 

heard, 

My  garden  path  went  wide,  like  Midian  plain; 
And  there,  before  another  burning  fane, 
I  hid  my  face,  and  waited  for  the  word. 


[29] 


THE  ASTRONOMER 

AROUND  my  tower, 

Where   bosky   clouds   of  night  their   branches 

lace, 

Bright  petalled  stars 
Prick  the  soft  gloom,  and  make  a  garden  space. 

These,  when  I  reach 

To  mete  and  weigh  them  in  my  little  scale, 

I  know  are  part 

Of  a  vast  flora,   past   the  cloudy  veil. 

So,  round  the  thoughts 

Measured  and  labelled  as  my  earthly  gain, 

Gleams  the  vast  thought 

That  dimly  felt,  I  struggle  to  attain. 


[30] 


You,  who  on  windy  pinnacles  of  thought 

So  oft,  by  night,  have  'scaped  the  ground,  to 

stand ; 

And  on  ecstatic  wings  of  vision  caught, 
Have  walked  in  sunrise  rooms  of  sunrise  land ; 
Have   marked   that   silver  urn   young   Cynthia 

brings 
To   pour   its   stream,   or  heard   the   brimming 

lap 
Through    all    those    naked    wands    of    wistful 

Spring's ; 

Wands,  that  the  beauties  of  the  year  enwrap. 
Cross  that  dim  way  that  bridges  man  to  man, 
To  me,  expectant  at  my  spirit's  door; 
You,  so  sure-footed  on  that  dizzy  span, 
Empty  your  bright  pack  on  my  spirit's  floor! 
Let  me,  though  alien,  for  a  passing  hour 
Share  beatific  vision  and  its  power. 


[31] 


THE  ARC  DE  TRIOMPHE  AT  SUNRISE 

PILED    from    great    deeds    and    diademed    with 

fame, 

See  where  it  arches,  grim  against  the  morn ; 
Deeply  incised  with   deathless  name  on  name, 
The  tole  of  agonies  and  lives  forlorn. 

An   awful  cement  lies  between   its   stones, 
And  down  its  sides  blood-tears,  unending,  drip ; 
And  yet,  to  one  who  harks,  behind  the  moans 
The  discords  blend  to  human  comradeship: 

Through  all  the  blare  of  armament  and  power, 
Sound  the  pure  strains  of  love  and  sacrifice, 
That    swell    to   paean    where    the    dawn's    soft 

flower 
Breathes  o'er  the  battling  world  an  armistice. 


THE  BOW 

As  in  a  lissom  Dryad  of  the  trees, 
The  soul  of  the  green  wood  dwells  in  my  bow; 
Its  gleaming  lines  inward  and  outward  flow, 
And  curve,  as  she  bends  pliant  to  the  breeze. 
Might  I  the  Dryad's  voice  on  it  bestow, 
When  its  tense  cord  is  fingered  by  the  wind, 
And  it  could  sing,  like  other  Dryad  kind, 
What  blissful  song  might  stir  the  golden  glow! 
Those    tender    tunes,    learned    of    the    lisping 

leaves, 

Fluted  by  all  that  budding  multitude, 
When    spring   is    blythe,    and   trees    are    rosy- 

hued, 

And  its  vast  overture  the  forest  weaves. 
But,  ah,  through  mirth,  might  my  bow  twang 

of  pain; 
Fretting  of  broken  nests  and  winged-slain! 


[35] 


WIND  FROM  THE   EAST 

FLOWER,   dropped   to   the   flame, 
Ashes   your   ashes   claim, 
Though,   in   that   cruel  heat 
Flickers    my    own    heart's    beat. 

Through  the   smoke's   drifting  spire, 
I  see  another  pyre ; 
Another  fiery   shrine 
For  loveliness  supine. 

In  far  dusk  of  the  East, 
The   sacrificial  priest 
Binds   to  the   cord   and  wood 
The   Indian   widowhood. 

The  involuted  wreath 

Of  smoke,  disparts  its  sheath, 

Upon  a  waking  dream 

Of  sacrifice  supreme. 

While  on  its  funeral  pile 

Shrivels  my  flower  the  while: 

And  winds  from  the  East  are  blown 

Over  my  own  hearth-stone. 


[36] 


BEAUVAIS  CATHEDRAL* 

KNOW  you  the  legend  of  the  perfect  fane? 
How  it  should  builded  be  with  Amiens'  nave, 
That  Chartres  should  lend  her  faultless  towers 

twain, 

And  Beauvais  her  bright  choir's  architrave? 
When  I  first  saw  that  choir's  crystal  ball, 
Meshed  in  the  graven  beauty  of  the  stone, 
— Naveless  indeed — but  with  its  steep-set  wall 
Pierced  with  the  hues  of  any  bubble,  blown 
To  sunny  air;  or  petalled,  curve  on  curve, 
And  stamened,  like  a  flower's  deep  recess, 
With  all  its  columns  and  its  arches'  swerve, 
Needing  no  nave  for  perfect  loveliness : 
I  thought  me  of  a  broken  flower  I  found, 
Stemless,     but     perfect,     dropped     upon     the 

ground. 

*  Beauvais  Cathedral  has  no  nave. 


[37] 


EXPERIENCE 

YES — life  is  hard;  but  once,  in  sorest  need, 
I  cast  a  pebble  down  a  dim,  deep  well ; 
Since  when,  my  ears  have  never  lost  the  sound 
Of    that    sure    plash,    where    my    small    pebble 
fell. 


[38] 


NAMESAKE 

MY  name  was   called — and  as  I  turned 
With  quick  response — your  young  voice  came, 
Thrilled  with  the  pride  of  ownership, 
Calling  sweet  "Adsum"  to  my  name ! 

Ah,  once  I  gazed  into  a  glass, 

A  magic  glass — and  there  was  seen, 

Not  this  sad,   tear-marked  face,  but  yours, 

Vivid  upon  the  mirror's  sheen. 

And,  once,  grave  Autumn  filched  a  gown 
Of  tender  green,  and  bound  her  hair 
With  Hyacinth.     Then  o'er  a  pool 
She  wept,  to  see  herself  so  fair ! 


[39] 


TO   A  YOUNG   POET 

I'VE  watched  the  soft  unfurling  of  thy  wings 
As  I  have  watched   the  palpitating  birth 
Of  a  bright  moth,  unfolding  to  grey  earth 
Its   patch  of   colour,   with  slow   flutterings 
Of  crumpled  wings,  that,  later,  set  to  mirth 
And  circling  beauty,  shall  print  faery  rings, 
— After     the      cocoon     winter's      cramp      and 

dearth — 

Upon  the  azure  meadow  of  the  spring's 
Eternal   sky.     But  on   thy  pulsing   sails, 
Down  morning's  path,  thou  dreaming  saunterer, 
Dazzled  by  life,  and  all  that  it  entails, 
I  see  imperial  gold  and  purple  stir ; 
Presage   of   that   bold   wing   that   mounts   the 

gales — 
Of  vision,  the  unerring  harbinger! 


[40] 


HAUS-GEIST 

HIGH  up  it  stood,  on  the  sunburned  ledge, 
Grey  and  wrinkled  and  spare ; 
Its  pent  porch,  like  a  withered  hand, 
Held  'gainst  the  western  glare. 

The  hand  had  fallen  when  I  passed, 
As  if  outspent,  at  rest; 
It  lay  against  the  faded  boards, 
As  folded  on  a  breast. 

Was  the  gaunt  house  dead  in  the  bright  day- 
light, 

Shuttered  eyes  closed  to  the  sun; 
Marked  by  Atropus,  where  it  stood, 
Its  tenuous  thread  outspun? 

Had  its  soul  slipped  through  the  fastened  door, 
From  the  old  sordid  strife, 
To  feel  the  balm  of  dewy  day, 
And  climb  again  to  life? 

For  there,  in  the  meagre  garden  plot, 
Against  the  time-stained  gate, 
A  pillared  mass  of  Larkspur  flame 
Soared,  blue,  intense,  elate. 


DESERT 

THE  way  is  very  long, 
Measured  by  dragging  feet ; 
And,  beating  down  my  eyes, 
The  sky  is  blue  with  heat. 

My  mouth  is  gritted  through, 

And  parched  by  blowing  sand; 

I  sift  its   foolish  gold 

Through     faint    and    palsied    hand. 

0  little  spot  of  green, 

1  strain  and  pant  to  gain ! 
Beacon,  that  somewhere  lights 
This  waveless,  empty  main! 

Senses,  beyond  my  sense, 
Your  hidden  life  perceive; 
Mirages  of  the  night 
The  tortured  day  retrieve. 

Somewhere,  the  dews  and  shade 
Of  bending  tree! 
Somewhere,  a  spring,  that  lives 
To  quicken  me! 


[42] 


LOVE'S  SONG 

You  are  to  me  the  blessing  of  dawn, 

When  my  hopes  are  in  flower; 
You  are  the  star,  that  first  opes  heaven's  gate, 

At  twilight  hour. 

You  are  the  sunlit  meadow,  at  noon, 
Where  my  joys  spring  knee-deep; 

And    the   wood   road,   where   lip-fingered   trees 
Our  secrets  keep. 

You  are  the  wind,  round  the  pathless  world, 

That  sang,  its  mate  to  find, 
And  I  replied,  with  answering  chord, 

To  you,  O  wind ! 


DESERT 

THE  way  is  very  long, 
Measured  by  dragging  feet; 
And,  beating  down  my  eyes, 
The  sky  is  blue  with  heat. 

My  mouth  is  gritted  through, 

And  parched  by  blowing  sand ; 

I  sift  its  foolish  gold 

Through     faint    and    palsied    hand. 

0  little  spot  of  green, 

1  strain  and  pant  to  gain! 
Beacon,  that  somewhere  lights 
This  waveless,  empty  main! 

Senses,  beyond  my  sense, 
Your  hidden  life  perceive ; 
Mirages  of  the  night 
The  tortured  day  retrieve. 

Somewhere,  the  dews  and  shade 
Of  bending  tree! 
Somewhere,  a  spring,  that  lives 
To  quicken  me! 


[42] 


LOVE'S  SONG 

You  are  to  me  the  blessing  of  dawn, 

When  my  hopes  are  in  flower; 
You  are  the  star,  that  first  opes  heaven's  gate, 

At  twilight  hour. 

You  are  the  sunlit  meadow,  at  noon, 
Where  my  j  oys  spring  knee-deep ; 

And    the   wood   road,   where   lip-fingered   trees 
Our  secrets  keep. 

You  are  the  wind,  round  the  pathless  world, 

That  sang,  its  mate  to  find, 
And  I  replied,  with  answering  chord, 

To  you,  O  wind ! 


SIMILITUDE 

THIS  is  the  picture  of  that  happy  place; 
Of  that  far  sea-path,  this,  the  counterpart; 
Interpreted  by  the  supremest  art, 
And  focused  in  its  framing's  golden  case. 
Here  can  I  almost  tread  that  path,  apart, 
And  smell  that  Clethra  by  the  spicy  sea, 
Whose  Mecca  blpoms  allure  the  pilgrim  bee. 
The  shy  wind's  touch  importunes  at  my  heart; 
I  hear  him  draw  his  bow  on  that  tree-crest, 
In  a  high  orchestra  of  harping  boughs, 
Whose  dark  and  mullioned  tracery  allows 
The  filtering  of  gold  light  from  the  west. 
And,  by  the  grace  of  a  sixth,  subtler  sense, 
I  feel  the  unrisen  moon's  red  imminence. 


[44] 


RECOGNITION 

THIS  face  we  know  as  Lincoln's:  wan,  awry, 
Moulded  to  features  of  a  common  guise; 
Unheeded  of  the  stranger,  passing  by, 
Save    for   the    soul   that   sentinels   the    eyes. 

When  his  essential  being  we  shall  see, 
In  that  great  gathering,  at  our  spirits'  goal, 
What  the  fair  beauty  of  its  panoply, 
When,  face  to  face,  we  recognize  the  soul ! 


[45] 


ARBOR  VITAE 

WE  listen,  at  cool  of  day, 

For  a  step  through  garden  dew; 

O  step  and  voice  from  the  morning  world, 

Make  us  anew! 

We  have   companied  with  Death, 

And  have  withered  in  his  blight ; 

The  prescient  red  of  our  morning  pales, 

Fore-knowing  night. 

Our  moments  drop  like  the  rain 
Of  brief  and  vanishing  showers, 
Lonely  and  stark  are  the  naked  boughs 
That  Death  deflowers. 

Thou,  Planter  of  Eden's  trees, 

Thou,  Walker  of  garden  ways, 

Speak  once  again  through  the  cool  of  eve, 

Ancient  of  Days! 

Oh,  turn  from  the  gate  away 

The   two-edged  fiery  strife! 

Give  from  the  tree  that  Thou  once  withheld, 

The  fruit  of  b'fe. 


[46] 


WINDS 

THROUGH   the  long  day  the  fitful   winds  have 

blown, 

Confused  of  speech,  and  lacking  dominant ; 
Discordant,  in  a  dreary  monotone, 
With  fluttering  whirls,  and  sighings  petulant. 
But  when  the  passing  day  a  shot  wing  dips, 
To  trail  its  fringes  in  the  cooling  sea, 
And  mark  with  vermeil  all  the  shining  ships, 
Then,  a  clear  sound  stirs  from  the  ecstasy ; 
The  high  soprano  of  the  evening  sings, 
To  herd  the  scattered  Ariels  of  the  air, 
And  set  their  mouths  to  silver  trumpetings : 
And  what  the  winds  could  not  to  day  declare, 
On  the  diapason  of  darkness  sped, 
The  sacred  word  is  to  the  stillness  said. 


[47] 


ROSA  BEATA 

I  YEARN  to  show  to  thine  expectancy 

A  rounded  symmetry  of  root  and  bough ; 

I  hear  thy  constant  benedicite — 

"Taller  and  fairer  than  thy  brethren,  thou!'r 

And,  armed  with  love's  own  hazel  wand,  desire, 
Thine  eyes  create  the  beauty  they  would  see ; 
Spreading  these  shrunken  branches  ever  higher, 
With  mystic  sap  of  thine  own  alchemy. 

To  my  wan  gaze,  not  even  thy  sweet  faith 
Cures  the  warped  growth,  revives  the  withered 

leaves ; 
Of    all    that    should   have   been,    the    mocking 

wraith : 
Where  songs  should  nest,  the  blanching  spider 

weaves. 

And  yet,  thy  benizons  environ  me! 
Still  thy  true  eyes  behold  me  passing  fair! 
Shall  such  faith  fool  thee  and  dishonour  thee? 
Her  right  of  birth  my  stunted  life  forswear? 

No!     In  dreaming  of  a  consummation, 
Fairer  than  even  your  desire  knows, 
Vibrant  with  vision,  and  divine  elation, 
Flowers  unseen  my  being's  perfect  rose. 

[48] 


PARADOX 

MINE  was  a  small  white  flower, 

Bent  to  a  rack  of  wind ; 

The  piercing  shaft  of  the  shower, 

Ruthless  its  heart  to  find, 

Has  swept  its  petals  to  air, 

Has  left  its  deep  heart  bare. 

O  paradox  of  life ! 
The  dove  that  'mongst  pots  has  lain, 
Is  she  whose  feathers  are  rife 
With  gold.     Insistent  refrain, 
That   choruses   all   our   days 
With  yeas  that  are  born  of  nays ; 
And  a  ruined  flower's  wraith 
Is  ecstasy  of  faith! 


[49] 


HOLIDAY 

SUMMER,  be  my  playfellow ! 

Teach  me  all  your  merry  mood ; 

Hide  and  seek  me  through  the  wood, 

To  and  fro! 

I  can  find  you,  where  e'er  hid, 

By  your  little  lilting  laugh 

That  the  birds  go  mimicking; 

By  your  fragrance,  that  to  quaff 

Flowers  go  a  pilfering 

With  no  fear  of  being  chid. 

Take  my  hand,  and  let  me  tread 

In  that  long  and  linked  dance, 

That,  throughout  the  vale's  expanse, 

Footprints  it  with  white  and  red. 

Then,  beneath  some  balmy  tree, 

Woo  me  to  a  sunny  trance: 

Give  me  to  dream  that  I  am  free 

From  all  that  poor  conventions  mean; 

From  shackles  of  hypocrisy. 

Cradle  me  in  cooling  green; 

Bring  down,  from  out  the  sapphire  skies, 

— Not  fire,  that  Prometheus  drew — 

But  healing  dew! 

And  when  you  speed  me  on  my  way, 

Back  to  work  and  every  day, 

Bestow  the  peace  upon  my  eyes, 

Of  those  who  Ve  looked  on  Paradise ! 

[50] 


TEMPTATION 

AT  his  side  a  curtain  hangs 

For  his  proof; 
His  desire  is  its  warp, 

Law  its  woof. 

Thitherward  the  gardens  lie 

Of  his  heart, 
And  the  folds,  at  lightest  touch, 

Would  dispart. 

Gusty  winds  the   curtain  fills, 

And  it  sways; 
But,  he's  master  of  his  soul, 

And  it  stays. 


[51] 


A  GATE   OF  DREAM 

I  DREAM  a  dream 

When   Fancy   wanders    like    a   spirit-breeze 

Through  Sleep's  dim  trees ; 

And  golden  gleam 

The   bending  fruits   of  my  fulfilled   desire. 

Away  from  high-road  flint  and  heat, 

Where  my  feet  lag  and  tire — 

Away  from  metronomic  beat 

Of  Night  on  Day,  of  Death  on  Life — 

I  slip  away  from  strife, 

To  where  the  trees  bear  healing  in  their  leaves, 

And  no  one  sins  or  grieves, 

For  Ransomed  Being  walks  serene,  elate! 

And,  in  that  Eden,  I,  another  Eve, 
No  anguish  to  retrieve, 

Have  heard  God   call  me  good  when   I   have 
passed  that  gate! 


[52] 


THE  SURPRISE 

WHEN  Love  stoops  low  in  merry  guise, 
— His   hands   sweet   bars   against   our   light- 
We  thrill  to  guess  the  dear  delight 
He  holds  above  our  blinded  eyes. 

With  that  great  love  that  men  name  Death, 

Shall  it  be  too  upon  that  wise? 

Is  it  for  rapture  and  surprise 

He  first  veils  eyes  and  hushes  breath? 


[53] 


ON  THE  GORNERGRAT 

WE  have  climbed  above  the  line 
Of  hemlock  and  fir  and  pine; 
Like  Samson,  the  giant's   shorn 
Of  tree  and  of  bush  and  vine. 

We  have  reached  the  rocky  nest 
The  mountain  makes  of  its  breast, 
Where  rills  and  rivers  are  born 
From  lonely  snows  of  its  crest. 

Where  the  earth  can  touch  the  sky 
With  the  hills,  uplifted  high 
In  that  dance's  rhythmic  beat 
Of  the  primal  harmony. 

The  veil  of  the  hills  is  rent; 
We  have  heard  the  voices  pent 
Where  the  rocks  and  waters  meet 
And  deeps  and  shallows  are  blent. 

With  delicate  sense,  in   sense, 
The  strings  of  our  being,  tense, 
We  have  heard  the  light  of  stars 
In  their  brooding  imminence. 

The  speech  of  stillness  is  ours ; 
The  meaning  of  shine  and  showers, 
Where,  rifting  its  cloudy  bars, 
The  Matterhorn's  whiteness  towers: 
[54] 


And  our  souls  are  henceforth  fraught 
With  the  deeper  intent  taught ; 
The  wings  of  our  souls  grow  fleet, 
With  finer  fibre  inwrought. 

An  infinite,  starry  thrill 

Our  vision  and  hearing  fill; 

The    shoes     are    loosed    from    our    feet ; 

Our  souls  are  shriven  and  still. 


[55] 


FOLK  SONG 

IT  is  the  leap  of  the  fount, 

The  gnome  of  the  hill, 

The  smoke  of  the  mount, 

The  naiad  of  rill. 

It  is  the  smell  of  the  pine, 

The  globe  of  the  vine, 

The  look  in  the  eyes 

Of  the  woman  who  bends  cradle-wise ; 

Of  the  man  who  looks  at  the  maid, 

Of  her  answering  look,  unafraid. 

The  salt  that  savours  the  meal, 

The  shrine  where  the  people  kneel; 

The   tear   that   the   night   leaves    the   flowers, 

The  reel  of  the  daylight  hours; 

The  kiss  of  the  eve, 

When  the  shadows  grieve. 

A  poet  gave  it  a  name, 

Invisible  pap  he  wore, 

So,  he  passed  away  as  he  came: 

But,  it  sings  him  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  nests  his  fame  in  that  stalwart  tree, 

Where  the  people's  lore,  unfadingly, 

Spreads  branches  evermore. 


[56] 


ROSA  DOLOROSA 

SEE,  sorrow  of  the  world, 
Climbeth,  a  vine; 
Tortuous    branches    curled, 
Life  intertwine. 

Screening  the  sun  and  stars, 
Leaves  drip  with  tears ; 
And  thorns  are  dank  with  blood, 
Shed  through  the  years. 

But,  from  the  spiked  bough, 
Behold  what  grows ! 
Sorrow's  evolved  crown, 
Sorrow's  own  rose! 

Rose,  that  King  David  won, 
Through  bitter  loss ; 
Rose,  that  the  Maries   saw 
Spring  near  the  cross  ! 


[57] 


VIGIL 

FROM  the  pale  lake  of  the  long  twilight  sky, 
Where  few,  slow  stars  were  dropping  plummet- 
line; 

Kjieeling  upon  its  brink  of  mystery, 
I  saw  emerge,  in  sleeve  of  samite  fine, 
A  hand,  that  raised  on  high  a  gleaming  blade ; 
And  where  the  star  of  Eve  broke  through  the 

cool 
Of    rippling    cloud,    and    flashed    athwart    the 

shade, 

I  saw  Excalibur  rise  from  the  pool. 
Before  the  dawn  had  nimbused  the  dark  hill 
The  brilliant  hilt  had  sunk  away  from  sight, 
As  once,  at  Lyonesse:  but  the  brave  thrill 
My  sword-hand  felt  before  that  vision  bright, 
Is  with  me  still,  and  turns  me  to  the  day 
With  a  new  temper  for  the  soul's  essay. 


[58] 


GOSSIPS 

LITTLE  neighbours  of  the  sod, 
Capped  in  yellow,  blue  and  red ; 
Small  feet,  in  green  mosses  shod, 
Small  thirsts,  by  the  night  dews  fed! 
How  near  are  you  cousins  mine? 
By  what  intuitions  led, 
Do  you  rise  from  mouldy  bed? 
By  what  obedience  divine 
Brim  with  fragrance,  as  with  wine, 
Cups,   outblown    with   subtler   grace 
Than  Cellini  and  his  race 
Ever  gave  to  cup  or  shrine? 
Whence   that  generosity, 
Calling  winged  things  to  sup, 
Bids  you  lift  a  sweetened  cup 
To   the   painted  Moth   and   Bee? 
Or  woo  the  wind  to  bend  and  take 
Largesse  on  his  wings,  to  shake 
And  scatter  all  along  his  way? 
I  too,  summoned  from  the  clod, 
Must  to  my  full  stature  rise, 
Lift  my  cup  some  thirst  to  slake, 
'Dress  me  to  some  fair  emprise. 
Little  neighbours  of  the  sod, 
Kin  to  me,  and  kin  to  God! 


[59] 


TODAY 

WALKING  the  hills  of  morn, 
Holding  the  star  of  dawn, 
Cometh  To-day: 
Catch  at  her  hem,  and  pray 
That  she  will  loiter  slow; 
All  that  of  time  we  know 
Lies  in  those  shadow  hours 
Dialled   by   her   frail   flowers. 

Too  soon,  with  subtle  grace, 

Turning  her  lovely  face, 

She'll  slip  away, 

To  be  but  Yesterday! 

And  when,  her  distant  feet, 

We  strain  our  eyes  to  greet, 

Trucing  our  sorrow, 

We'll  call  her  then,  To-morrow! 

Ah,  if  we  were  not  blind! 
Counting  before,  behind; 
Narrowing  sight 
To  mourn  the  moment's  flight! 
There  be  no  yesterdays, 
No  morrows  or  to-days, 
If  we  but  knew  to  scan 
The  one,  supernal  plan. 


[60] 


THE   GLASS 

TRUTH  held  her  glass: 
I  knew  not  the  soul  I  saw 
For  its  warp  and  stain  and  flaw; 
"These  are  the  stains  I  have  known 
On  other  souls  than  my  own : 
This  is  not  the  soul  of  my  ken." 
And  I  shrank  from  the  image,  when 
Truth  held  up  her  glass. 

Truth  held  her  glass — 

The  light,  from  a  deed  forgot, 

Had  blurred  and  dimmed  each  spot ; 

But  I  shrank  with  deeper  shame 

To  utter  my  own  soul's  name, 

To  take  my  own  soul's  meed, 

To  claim  my  own  soul's  deed: 

And  I  knew  my  soul  still  less, 

In  its  guise  of  righteousness, 

When  Truth  held  her  glass. 


[61] 


REVELATION 

WHERE  the  long  sea  lifts  and  relifts  its  waves 

In  iterated  patience  of  despair, 

To  splinter  into  fragments  on  the  sands, 

And  night  is  dark  with  sad  futilities ; 

Then,  from  a  mystic,  unseen  stem  is  blown 

The  perfect  flower  of  the  lily  moon, 

From  whose  wide  open  petals  trembles  light, 

To    make    a    highway    through    the    trackless 

dark, 

And  light  vast  horizons  to  certainty. 
So,  when  the  air  is  black  about  our  souls, 
When,  with  that  patience  that  is  kin  to  God's, 
We've  builded  walls  that  tumble  into  foam, 
And  our  tides  ebb,  with  death  a-drag  at  them: 
Then,  how  it  comes  we  know  not,  save  that  God 
Sends  the  sap  up  to  feed  the  mystic  bloom, 
A  perfect  moment  rises  on  our  night, 
And  in  its  wake  a  footway  spans  the  dark, 
Whereon   we   tread  to   things   invisible. 


[62] 


TO  ROBERT  AND  ELIZABETH 
BROWNING 

ON  what  bright  quest  are  your  spirits  sped, 

Passers  from  Casa  Guidi's  shade, 

Now   that    the    sheath    has    dropped    from   the 

blade, 
Now  that  the  dart  from  the  bow  has  fled? 

Separate  flames  in  a  single  fire, 
Diverse  tongues,  and  one  burning  coal; 
Runners  twain  to  a  single  goal, 
Strikers  both  on  humanity's   lyre! 

Now  that  the  masque  of  this  life  is  shed, 
Feeling  the  sun  of  another  world, 
Your  souls   in  the  winds   of  God  unfurled, 
On  what  bright  quest  are  your  spirits  sped? 
Florence,  1905. 


[63] 


MIRACLE 

FOR  my  sake  in  the  orchard-close, 
Love  stripped  every  tree ; 

But,  miracle!  the  empty  boughs 
Laden  low  I  see. 

And  Love  has  gathered  every  flower 

To  tapestry  the  day; 
But,  see!  to  top  of  yonder  hill 

Buds  are  standing  gay. 

Love  stayed  'till  the  clocks  ran  down 
"Time  is  so  short,  ah  me!" 

Then,  on  a  sudden,  in  Love's  eyes, 
Grew — Eternity ! 


[64] 


TIDES 

MY  brain  lies  tranced,  like  some  lonely  strand, 
When  its  long  wave  has  turned  it  to  the  sea ; 
Its  murky  light  is  set  to  sober  key, 
And  tangled  flotsam  cumbers  the  dun  sand. 
Bright  waters,  that  have  ebbed  from  where  I 

stand, 

Turn  in  your  flight,  and  draw  again  to  me ; 
To  flood  this  waste  with  your  pure  ecstasy, 
With  rush  and  tang  my  listless  thought  expand. 
So,    when    I'm    brimmed   with    your    returning 

tide, 
E'en    this    dark   hulk   that's    stranded   on   my 

beach, 

Shall  lift  a  daring  sail,  the  deeps  to  ride, 
Dyed  with  Tyrian  of  a  sonnet's  speech, 
That  out  where  sea  and  sky  are  misty-wide, 
The  port  of  some  far  horizon  may  reach. 


[65] 


EAST  TO  WEST 

THE  sun  moves  slow  through  sea  of  fire, 

His  sails  set  to  the  glare ; 
Towed  to  the  harbour  of  the  West, 

Like  "Fighting  Temcraire"; 
All  of  his  streaming  pennants  lit 

With  pathos  of  that  name, 
And,  a  long  glory  in  his  wake, 

Breaks  a  red  sea  of  flame. 

Yonder,  in  gray,  translucent  East, 
The  Moon  Ship  lights  her  prow, 

And  each,  of  all  her  fleet  of  stars, 
Hangs  lamp  upon  its  bow. 

Peace,  her  brief  armistice  has  won, 
And  East  to  West  breathes  benizon. 


[66] 


THE  PAWN 

THERE  is  no  terror  in  immensity ; 

No  fear  that  little  things  shall  be  forgot : 

Eternity  itself  shall  never  blot 

Aught  from  the  scheme  of  things ;  for  it  was 

He, 

The  architect  of  buttressed  Dolomites, 
Who  planned  each  pebble  and  each  sandy  grain : 
And  shall  we  fear  for  lapses  in  the  brain 
Of  God?     Because   of  unseen,  countless  lights 
Out  on  the  verge  of  things,  shall  He  forget 
This  little  taper  that  He  set  to  shine 
And  which,  though  blown  about,  is  shining  yet, 
In  the  small  candlestick  that  I  call  mine? 
Designer  of  the  problem  on  the  board, 
I  am  thy  pawn,  Thou'lt  not  forget  me,  Lord ! 


[67] 


OUTRUNNING  my  own  soul, 
I  reached  the  house  of  Love ; 

The  door  was  shut; — the  wall 
Rose  cold  above. 

I  pulled   the  heavy  latch. — 
The  iron  chilled  and  mocked: 

My   pulsing   hand    dropped    low,- 
The  door  was  locked ! 

I  struck  the  senseless  wood, 
I  struck — and  silence  grew; 

And   with   its    numbing  breath 
My  passion  slew. 

And  next,  to  that  hard  door 
I  laid  my  palm  and  cheek, 

And  sobbed  the  pleading  word 
I  could  not  speak. 

Then,  as  I  turned  to  go, 
My  soul  stood  in  the  way; 

And,  face  to  very  face, 
My  soul  did  say: 

"Know  this  sin  for  thine  own! 

Let  Love,  himself,  go  free: 
'Tis  thou  hast  shut  Love's  door, 

And  turned  Love's  key." 
[68] 


URBIUM  FLORES 

NOT  alone  in  paling'd  parks 

Are  the  city's  flowers   found; 

Where  the  Tulips'  scarlet  frocks, 

Set  in  geometric  marks, 

Pricked  in  lines,  like  fire-sparks, 

Go,  outlining  grass  and  rocks. 

There,  the  fountains  faint  and  flare 

In  the  breezes'  virelay, 

Braiding  their  long,  fluttering  hair; 

Tiptoeing  in  idle  sway 

O'er  the  bowl,  that  Lilies  bound 

With  their  white  mosaics  round. 

Not  alone  upon  the  mart, 
Sheltered  behind  crystal  panes, 
Where  the  florist's  graceful  art, 
With  a  glowing  counterpart, 
All  the  lush  of  summer  feigns. 

But,  with  an  inner  sight, 
Look  down  that  narrow  way 
Whose  shadows  start  at  day, 
And  huddle  from  the  light. 
Or,  on  that  grey,  grim  square 
That's  fought  its  way  to  air, 
With  its    poor   trap   set    for   a   fill    of   sun, 
And  see  the  tumult  gay 
Of  riot  bloom,  that  like  the  living  spray 
From  a  white  wave,  breaks  in  its  frolic  fun ! 
[69] 


The  alleys  strait 

Turn  into   twilight  lanes, 

Where   drifting  bloom 

The  shadows  luminate: 

And,  trod  by  flower  trains 

That   spread  adown   the  gloom, 

The  sordid  street  becomes  a  garden  sweet. 

There,  Roses  congregate, 

And,  heads  elate, 

Entwine  their   sprays 

In  myriad,  merry  plays; 

The  Pinks  are  pointing  all  their  dainty  toes, 

In  gamesome  rows; 

And   Trumpet-flowers,  under  clasped   arch, 

Do  march,   and   counter-march ; 

While  every  little  flower-chap 

Throws  up  his  pretty  cap. 

But,  other  flowers  live  in  that  drear  place, 
• — Existence,  irony  has  misnamed  life, — 
A  sorry,  stunted  little  populace 
Of  spindled  weeds,  with  the  relentless  knife 
Of  cold  neglect,  laid  at  their  tender  roots ; 
While  all  those  small,  pale  shoots 
They  give,  confiding,  to  the  mocking  air, 
Hang,  blackened  by  despair. 


[70] 


Like  a  parched  flower,  in  pot, 
Set  on  the  world's  high  window  sill, 
And  then,  forgot, 

The  wistful  beauty  of  the  lifted  bud, 
Trampled  to  mud, 

What  are  they  but  a  mark  for  the  harsh  winds 
to  kill ! 

O  City !  gardener  of  the  Tulip  bed, 

And  setter  of  the  Lily  pavement  fine, 

Where  the  exotics  of  the  window  flaunt ; 

What  of  the  flowers  that  haunt 

Your  outcast  ways,  and  in  the  darkness  pine? 

The  stricken  buds,  that  ere  they  live  are  dead ! 

Such,  bloom  not  for  a  day, 
But  these  are  they 
Who,  surely,  in  another  city  street, 
— The  Eternal  One 
Their  vivifying  sun — 

Shall  play  their  happy   games,  and  run  their 
races  fleet. 


[71] 


TRANSMIGRATION 

CREEPING   from    the   gloom 
Of  thy  woven  tomb, 
Don  thine  ancient  dress, 
Webbed   of   loveliness; 
Bound  by  golden  hems, 
Set   with  unknown   gems, 
And,  in  dreamy  trance, 
Spread  for  thy  brief  dance. 

Spoils  of  aeons   girt 
That  frail,  silken  skirt; 
Such   resplendent   state 
Who  can  emulate? 
Where  another  pace 
Like   the  circling  grace, 
With  high  poises  set, 
Of  thy  minuet? 

Moth,  that  worm  began, 
In  unending  plan; 
Moth,  that  draws  from  fire 
Insatiable   desire; 
Moth,  escaped  from  night, 
To  die  for  love  of  light ; 
What,  in  next  degree, 
Shall  thy  glory  be? 


[72] 


KINSHIP 

I   AM    a   mark   in    ancient   hieroglyphs    of   the 

sand: 
I  am  a  drop  in  the  water,  drumming  its  march 

to  land: 
I  am  a  thread  that's  woven  into  the  brooding 

nest: 
I  am  the  blinded  seed,  driven  to  east  and  west. 

Low  with  the  spreading  herb,  high  up  on  the 
mountain  side: 

— Turrets  not  made  with  hands, — in  their  pin- 
nacles I  abide: 

A  breath  of  the  breathing  lift,  to  vaster 
heights  I  win, 

And  high-piled  dust  of  stars  I  know  for  kith 
and  kin. 

Yet,  of  all  these  my  brothers,  I  alone  am  the 
sigh, 

I  alone,  in  the  night,  am  the  bitter  and  rend- 
ing cry: 

I  alone  am  the  quest,  persistent  amid  the  strife, 

And  passing  through  the  bars,  I  am  both  death 
and  life. 


[73] 


POET-BIRTH 

RHYTHMICAL  song  of  the  hills, 
Chanting  of  springing  sod ; 
Mystical  sign  of  the  curving  strand, 
Drawn  by  the  finger  of  God! 

Quicken  one,  dumb  from  his  birth, 
With  your  harmonies  imbue. 
Open  his  sense  to  stir  in  that  womb 
Whence  all  may  be  born  anew. 

i 

So,  when  with  tune  of  the  gale, 
Aeolus  fingers  the  tree, 

And   Autumn's   tattered   and    dun    skirts    trail 
Along  the  edge  of  the  sea; 

When  the  sun  begins  to  cower, 
And  the  nights  are  black  and  long, 
He  can  take  from  his  breast  a  flower, 
Hearten  the  world  with  a  song. 


[74] 


ALTHOUGH  the  universal  chant  be  one, 

Star  upon  star,  poised  in  the  infinite, 

Strings  its  bright  harp  with  its  essential  light ; 

Isolate  notes  make  up  the  unison. 

Beyond  our  hearing  sound  those  altos  clear, 

Whose     antiphons,     where     star-worlds     wheel 

their  lone 

Abysmal  spheres,  each  booms  its  organ-tone. 
Orion  sings,  ringed  in  an  atmosphere 
Of  his  own  melody's  clear,  shining  round ; 
In  his  deep  chant,  Mars  casts  his  heart  of  fire, 
And  Sirius'  flames  in  lilts  of  light  aspire: 
Pleiads'  bright  arms   time  their  own   cymbals' 

sound. 

While  Cynthia  croons  her  hymn  of  ministry, 
Earth's    sad,    brave    song   winds    through   the 

harmony. 


[75] 


2 

As   with  the   stars,   so   with   the  lives   of  men, 

Illimitable  light,  that  floods  the  whole, 

Said,  "be  thou  light,"  to  each  concentred  soul, 

And  focus  must,  forevermore,  as  then. 

We  shrink  from  drowning  in  the  mighty  All ; 

We'd   be    ourselves,    and    wear   our   lives'    own 

hue; 

Life,  with  its  colours,  must  our  lives  imbue; 
A  pale  Nirvana  must  our  souls  appall ! 
Let  that  white  Light,  round  which  our  orbits 

move, 

Our  beings  aureole  with  Iris  rays: 
Let  us  not  miss  from  everlasting  ways 
The  human  tints  we  in  each  other  love. 
Dear    friend,    in    that    high   way   that    spirits 

tread, 
Thy  blue  be  blue,  thy  red  forever  red! 


[76] 


PILGRIMAGE 

THE  plot  thou  gavest  me  lies  ashen  bare, 
Save  for  a  crop  of  bramble  and  of  tare. 

My  pilgrim  staff  lies  broken  into  twain, 
My  shoes  are  sodden  with  the  mud  and  rain. 

Lord,  I  am  lost — my  self  I  cannot  find — 
My  cut  too  deep  for  any  man  to  bind. 

Thy  pilgrim  train  has  left  me  far  behind, 
It's  late  to  dig,  no  sheaves  have  I  to  bind. 

The  sky  is  dank  and  dark,  no  kindly  star 
Silvers  the  crossing  of  my  window  bar. 

But  on  this  blackened  hearth,  still  in  Thy  name, 
I  lay  some  twisted  sticks  to  kindle  flame; 

And  lift  the  latchet  of  the  broken  door, 
And  strew  soft  rushes  on  the  earthen  floor. 

Then,  on  the  board  I  place  the  bread  and  cup ; 
— But,  if  alone,  alone  I  cannot  sup — 

So,  close  to  where  the  pane  with  night  is  wet, 
This  little  candle  of  my  love  I  set. 


[77] 


A     000128938 


